PIC
by YeBritishBabe
Summary: Why is Romano singing? Why is Kerry a frog? Who grows turnips at the admin desk and why does Susan do a victory dance? But most importantly, what is PIC?


Disclaimed: I own not ER, not Futurama, not Rolf Harris, not The Matrix, not that song from that film with the bunnies, not nothing.

A/N: I will finish the other one I promise! But in this world of seriousness, I must come forth with the torch of nonsense. 

Humour is my first love (and it will be my last) so writing serious stuff for so long has made me all jumpy and hyper. I need to vent people! What that means is this is not like my other FF but hopefully you will still like it.

Still got Cordano stuff in it though.

If you know what PIC is, then shh! Don't tell. 

Warning: This is mad and I have channelled the Carry-On films in parts. Hey, I'm British.

Dedicated to all new and returning readers and especially the mothers (or sisters) of humour/spoof fanfic Cassi and Sven. Enjoy!

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Chicago

12:45am

Dark, stormy night™

Lighting flashes. Thunder rolls and there goes half our special effects budget already. Thunder is provided by one of them wiggly boards, so naturally Rolf Harris appears and begins wiggling for all his worth.

Rolf: Tie me Kangaroo down, sport! Tie me kangaroo down!

He wabbles along a small shelf stuck out under the windows, halfway up County Hospital. He continues to wibble his wobbly board and you just know someone's heading for a fall. 

We focus on him. Suddenly a window opens.

Rolf: Tie me-arrrrrggggh!

A small, bald, one-armed man (guess who) ignores the rapidly falling Aussie and stares out into the dark night. The rain sweeps in on him and makes him all...a...bit...damp...sorry back to the story.

Romano: One of these days we're going to have to pay more tax to get a proper thunderstorm. Anyway. The darkness. Yes, that suits me. And my mood. Since I have become...detached. But soon, soon I shall have my revenge. If only they knew.

He broods a bit more. See this Angel, you're not the only one who can brood.

Voice: I don't suppose we could have the lights on could we? My eyes aren't what they used to be. 

Romano sighs and rolls his eye. He's doing his best to be menacing and it's just not happening.

Author (whispers): Keep going, you're doing great.

Romano turns and clicks on the light. His office looks like Frankenstein's lab. Seriously, there are test tubes, funny liquids and bits in jars and some big-ass machines in here.

Over to one corner, over a lab table, Professor Farnsworth (yeah he's a cartoon character you're point would be?) is doing, well, something.

PF: Much better. I can't, mm, see too well these days. When you get to my age it happens. Whatever my age is.

Romano sighs and walks over to the doddering fool.

Romano: Why did I get him? Scrap that, why did you get him?

Author: Coz he was going cheap, now he's been cancelled.

Romano: So, Prof, how's it going? Well, I hope.

PF: Oh yes indeed. I have now only small bits to do. Flourishes if you will. Although I would appreciate knowing why you have asked me to this.

Romano: I don't pay you to ask questions.

PF: You don't pay me at all. You just feed me slices of processed cheese.

Romano: I thought you liked the cheese?

PF: Oh I'm not complaining I'm just pointing it out.

Romano walks around the table and stares down at whatever is on it.

Romano: This is my revenge. My key re-gaining control of the hospital after I was Weavered out of my position. Even now she's still in charge. What's a guy gotta do to get a break around here?

PF: Don't ask me. We produced a high quality, amusing show, which, while it wasn't The Simpsons, was better than a lot of stuff on TV and we still got cancelled.

Romano: Mmm. 

He looks a little embarrassed all of a sudden.

Romano: Oh and how's that other thing I asked you to do coming along?

PF: Dr Romano, we've all ready been through this. I can't make those sort of things, you need special sho-

Romano: Not that! (quietly) Nobody heard that right?

Author: No, no. All that childish sniggering you can hear are people watching American Pie 3.

Romano sighs.

Romano: I meant...oh forget it. I'll just have to do it the old fashioned way. Although if you could extract some of Igor's sex appeal I'd be interested.

PF looks sideways at his drooling hunchbacked assistant Igor who's currently reading Voltaire. Not having met Luka, he's understandably confused.

PF: Who knew a huge cranium could be so attractive. Not me that's for sure.

Outside, the thunder no longer rolls coz we lost our thunder making person but the lightning comes again. Cheap music cue to...

*

*

*

Morning.

Claire Smallpants stands outside Chicago County hospital. It is afternoon and the sun blazes high above her head. She stares at the doors. Then looks up at the Author.

Claire: I am not going in there.

Author: What? You have to, that's part of the story!

Claire: I don't care. I know my rights and I'm not going in there. There are bullet holes in the wall. And look at that!

She points to half a car embedded in the wall. Smoke drifts from it and a family of racoons are busy making it their home.

Claire: This place isn't a hospital it's a death zone-

Author: Well-

Claire: -and_ that_ is not filling me with confidence.

She points to a sign that reads "ABANDON ALL HOPE (of treatment that is) ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE"

Author: Look just get in there and get into the story. You're a drama student who cut her finger whilst attempting to make a sandwich.

Claire: How?

Author: An ill-advised trip into the kitchen. The lifting and moving of a heavy objects i.e. a small knife which you accidentally dropped when you heard Jessica Fletcher had been accused of murder (for about the ninth time. And why not, seeing as people drop dead wherever she goes?)

Claire: Mmm, too right. I'm missing Murder She Wrote for this?

Suddenly an ambulance screeches in behind her. She only just manages to jump out of the way in time. Peering out from behind some bins, she noticed a gurney being pulled out, with a woman in an empire line dress laying on it in a swoon.

Claire: A swoon?

Susan (yay) and Gallant (double yay) run out ready to do daring-do. 

Ambulance fella: Female, aged thirty-five, accidentally used a normal fork instead of a cake fork at high tea.

Susan: Man I hate the SFPs.

Gallant: The what ma'am?

Susan: Social Faux Pas. They're just the worst. 

They hurry inside with their charge. Well, actually they try to go through the doors, but the doors are broken and won't open so they have to prize them apart with a crowbar and slide inside.

Claire looks up at the Author. Who looks away and makes Claire enter the ER anyway.

CREDITS 

Dum, dee, dum, dee/dum, dee, dum, dee - imagine greenish titles and much fighting over who goes where in the sequence. It's a scrum. Scrap that, it's a squash. 2 1/2 seconds per face. 

END CREDITS

Claire: I just had to stand in the doorway for thirty seconds waiting for that.

She goes up to the desk, stepping over a few people and stray dogs along the way. A large fat man (Frank) and a tall, not so fat man (Jerry) are arguing over two potatoes. 

Jerry: Mine is waaay more amusingly shaped than yours!

Frank: I think not sirree! Mine has these two amusing nubbins here and here which quite clearly look like ba-

Romano (singing-yeah you heard me-singing): Bright eyeees, burning like fieeerrrrr!

Jerry and Frank: SHUT UP!

Chuny: Geez he's in such a happy mood today I'm freaking out. I think I'm gonna call an exorcist!

Frank: -that big. I mean what's amusing about that!' 

Claire: 'scuse me? (she holds up her bandaged finger) who can I see about this?

The two men look at her as if she is mad or sane or possibly both.

Frank: What is it?

Claire: My finger.

Frank:Yeah what's it doing here?

Claire: Bleeding. A bit. It's mostly stopped now, only I think someone should look at it.

Jerry scoops up a pile of papers, careful not to dislodge the healthy crop of cucumbers he's cultivating and shoves them into Claire's arms.

Jerry: Fill 'em in, hand 'em back and pray. Hard.

He disappears to examine his leeks.

Claire: How long do you think I'll have to wait?

Frank looks at his watch.

Frank: Lets see, its half twelve, summer and-

He licks his finger and holds it up.

Frank:-the winds from the East. I'd say till October.

Claire: What!?

Frank: Don't blame me sister, we've been having some trouble round here ever since the fairytale incident.

Claire: Author! Is he joking?

Author: Nope.

Claire: Oookay, should I ask?

Frank: Nothing much. Just one pissed off witch with a bad case of haemorrhoids and Weaver. It was quite a battle I can tell you. I mean, who knew Weavers crutch was really a wand? But the witch got her in the end. Real nasty.

Claire: She's dead?

Frank: No, worse. She's a frog.

Frank disappears to check on his amusingly shaped turnips and unleash slugs all over Jerry's leeks. Claire looks sideways and sees a frog sitting on the desk, sporting a red bob, glasses and a tiny crutch. The frog ribbits and hops onto her pile of papers.

There is an eye-off. Claire is quickly frightened and whimpers.

Kerry: I still got it.

She hops off again. Claire, disorientated, takes a wrong turn and wanders across to Trauma room one (next door to the embedded car), where the Austenish woman from the ambulance being worked on.

Susan: This bodice is too tight, she's being suffocated!

Gallant: The Heaving Bosom Syndrome, I read about that! 

Pratt: Sounds like my kinda syndrome.

Susan: Pratt, you shift those hands now or I swear-

Monitors: Beep, beep, in case anyone cares beep!

Gallant hands Susan some special bodice scissors. 

Susan: Okay people, glasses on, there may be some spillage.

They put on their glasses. Pratt, being that he is, has his tinted with a monogrammed edge.

Susan dives in with the scissors. She snips. And snips some more. 

Monitors: Beep, beep! Oh this isn't working how about this, a boom-boom-tsh, a boom-boom-tsh! Look at me I'm Justin Timberlake!

Pratt begins to groove around the room in his patented Victory Dance. Finally Susan has the bodice free and the room is doused in...tea. Earl Grey with a dab of milk. 

Austenish: Oh my. My heavens preserve me I am most overcome by my social folly. 

Gallant: Here ma'am have this leaflet. Its about support groups-Newly Ostracised by High Society Friends.

Susan smiles and does her patented Victory Dance which is like Pratt's only, you know, better.

Claire shakes her head and backs away

Claire: I'm outta here!

Author: No, wait I promise it'll get better. Look, really! I'll even...

Claire: Ooo, food!

The student food gene kicks in and Claire dives onto the nearest vending machine.

Author: That's not in the story!

Claire: I am hungry. Do not make me hurt you.

She dumps the files on top of the machine and begins to riffle through her pockets for money. 

Strange Old Man voice: That thing hasn't worked since I came here.

She turns to see a Strange Old Man with a long beard, permanent shake and floppy hat behind her. Imagine, if you will, an old timey prospector of the Gold Rush and you'd be on target.

Strange Old Man: No. Ne're worked fifteen years to the day since I came into these here parts. A monster that's what it is. Will swallar your gold, but ne'er give up none of its secrets.

Claire: I'm not after secrets I just want a chocolate bar-Author!

Author: What?

Claire: Make the machine give me a chocolate bar. In fact two chocolate bars and some Jelly babies. And maybe something to drink whilst we're at it.

Author: That is not my job. If I start giving you everything you ask for they'll be no story, no tension.

Claire: There already is no tension. The audience have gone to sleep.

The Author looks and notices her readers seem to be nodding off. She pulls out a horn and blasts at them. They wake, licking their lips and blinking blearily. 

Author: Come on its not that bad. Could be worse, could be a Carby.

The audience nod grudgingly in agreement. Claire taps her hand impatiently waiting for her food. The Author sighs and gives in, allowing the machine to hand over two choccie bars, a packet of jelly babies and a drink. Claire smiles cheerfully, then sits down next to Strange Old Man, who looks at her suspiciously. To appease him, Claire offers Jelly Babies.

Claire: The official sweet of peace. The UN have them at they're negotiating table.

The Strange Old Man has begun to chomp on the jelly baby nosily, with his two remaining teeth

Claire: So you've been here fifteen years?

Strange Old Man: That there I have. My name is Donot Litter.

Claire's brow wrinkles.

Claire: Weird name.

Author: Your name is Claire-

Claire: Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Strange Old Man: Well, its not me real name, ya sees. I bin here so long I forgots me own name so's I picked one from the wall.'

He raises a shaking finger and points to a sign which reads 'Do Not Litter' Claire shifts uneasily, wondering if it too will become her fate to remain here until she too names herself after a notice on a wall.

Claire: Actually I'm moving coz these chairs are uncomfortable.'

Author: Oh good grief.

Claire: So I guess you don't remember why you came in the first place?

Donot: Of course I do! You must never, ever forget why you came in the first place missy. For when your time comes, they will ask. And you must know.

Claire: So...?

Donot: Oh, I had troubles. Down in me britches.

He raises his eyebrows in a gesture and Claire immediately wishes she hadn't asked.

Claire: Oh, okay well that's great...I mean bad, very bad. I won't ask any more now.

Donot: Sees it all started when I-

Claire: La, la, la, I'm not listening. Hey Author I'm going to kill you when I get out of here!

She unplugs her fingers briefly.

Donot: -terrible burning-

She re-plugs them with haste, but as she does so she notices someone approaching the Chairs area. 

He seems bathed in an almost otherwordly light. As she watches the faces of the gathered masses-thin and pale, confused and bored turn towards this vision. Claire scrunches up her eyes to see better.

Finally, a man appears. 

It is Dr John Carter, Saint Carter, Carter of the lost causes, Carter of the heavy burden of leadinghood since Greene left this mortal coil. 

He also appears to have a monkey on his shoulder. 

He smiles benignly at the gathered masses, as they lean forward.

Carter: Edwards? Sissy Edwards?

In a whirl a girl stands up holding a hand with teapot on it. People touch her coat as she passes. She cries. Flowers are thrown.

Sissy: I want to thank my taxi driver for getting me here. Mary-Anne for giving me a humbug, um, the nurses Yosh and Lydia and the Oracle and most importantly PI-

And she's whisked away to receive proper treatment, without ever finishing her mysterious sentence. The light fades and darkness returns.

Author: Huh? Huh?

Claire: What? 

Author: Aren't you the least bit interested in who the Oracle is? Or PI...

Claire: Why did you tail off?

Author: Didn't want to give it away.

Claire: Anyway, no I'm not interested. Although-why did he have a monkey on his shoulder?

Donot: That weren't no monkey, missy. That were Doc Greene.

Claire: Isn't he dead?

Donot: Sure'um missy. But his spirit is alive and well. He's gone and got himself attached to Dr Carter via the Stethoscope of Leadership. Now he sits on his shoulder, day and night, offering heavy words of wisdom, prime-time show backbone and an awful lot of self-righteous bunkum.

Claire peers after the oh-so-burdened doctor.

Claire: Can't keep him away from Abby though.

Donot: Na missy, that's Doc Greene's influence too. He never had much luck with women either and now it's rubbing off on old Johnny boy!

Claire turns back round and finds herself confronted by a pair of dark glasses. A man wearing a long dark coat and dark everything else is sitting in front of her. He moves round so he is sitting behind her.

Dark Glasses: It's what you want to know isn't it?

Claire: Oh, what now?

Dark Glasses: The question. The question you have been asking yourself.

Claire: What did I do to deserve this?

Dark Glasses: The question that haunts you, drives you.

Claire: Wait-you're that guy from the Matrix aren't you, you're Ne-

Dark Glasses: No, no. I am a totally original creation. My name is, er, Leo, yes, that's it Leo.

Claire: Riiiight. So "Leo", what is it your babbling on about?

Leo: The question. The one which haunts your dreams - What is PIC?

Claire: Nooo. Maybe something like 'why is Jennifer Love Hewitt called 'actress' or 'where did Gallant's story-lines go?' but not, er, that.

Author: Shh now, here comes the cliff-hanger.

Donot: DUCK!

Everyone ducks except Claire who is socked by the cliff-hanger and is out cold.

Author: Ah well least it wasn't an anvil.

Well, can't say I didn't warn you. If you think I should go on, drop us a review. If you don't, drop us an anvil. Only don't, er, coz that would hurt.


End file.
